My Side Of The Story
by windscryer
Summary: It may not have been his fault, but it was his responsibility. Background Shules.
1. Why Is Life Making Me Hollow?

See? I'm not dead.

Yet.

Anyway, this popped into my head in that most inspirational of places, the shower. And then I forgot about it for most of the day. *headdesk*

Happily, it came back on its own instead of me having to try and fail to hunt it down.

The title is from the song by the same name by JT Hodges. It's pretty much the soundtrack to this story as far as Shawn's concerned. Go find it and die like I did.

Also, I don't own the song or the show or much of anything really. Sad, but true.

Oh, and it gets a bit squicky in here. You've been warned.

Flailed over by Lu. And the summary? All hers. The bitch.

(Thanks, luv. 3)

* * *

Shawn enters the building alone.

He sent Gus to park the car, not sure of what they'd find inside, but not wanting Gus to have to deal with it if it's bad. Gus knows him well enough not to argue. He'll take his time finding a very good spot, and not just because it's a company car and a less than desirable neighborhood.

He greets and acknowledges the officers between the sidewalk and the door of the apartment, but he knows before he reaches the fourth floor landing that giving Gus an errand was the right choice.

Lassie's face only confirms the news, grim and set in that determined scowl that promises someone will pay for what's behind the door.

Shawn opens his mouth to say something, an apology probably, but Lassie's not the one that needs it and he doesn't want to hear it either, so Shawn shuts his mouth without saying anything.

"Go inside, Spencer."

Shawn's head tilts.

"What?"

"Go inside. You need to see this."

Something is off about Lassie's voice. Shawn can't quite figure out what it is, but he knows it's there.

Before he can figure out this mystery another presents itself when the door opens.

"Dad?"

"Go inside, Shawn," his father says. His face is grim too, his expression that one that says he's trying to teach Shawn something even if he doesn't enjoy doing so.

Shawn looks between them, then takes a step back.

"No. I don't—"

"Go inside, Mr. Spencer."

He whirls and finds Chief blocking his exit, a uniform on either side to ensure he can't slip past. She's got her arms crossed over her chest and her look is stern and unrelenting. She's not going to move until he does as she's ordered.

He swallows, looking between them all, but his usual witty banter has deserted him.

"Shawn," one of the officers says, stepping forward, but not enough to provide an opening. It's Buzz and even the happy-go-lucky patrolman is stone-faced in the wake of what lies on the other side of that door.

"Go inside," he says. It's gentle and tentative, as Buzz's words to Shawn usually are when he's trying to be a cop, but Shawn still can't deny it.

His breathing quickens and he steps back until he's up against the wall. The hallway feels like it's shrinking, the cops—past and present—getting closer, looming over him and insistently _looking_ at him, waiting for him to cave.

"I don't want to," he admits, his voice tiny and afraid. He hates it, hates how young he sounds, but he can't change it. "Dad," he says, locking gazes with his father. "I don't want to go in- inside."

His voice cracks on the last word and he looks down, ashamed. He's not a cop, not one of them, he doesn't have what it takes to be them and he's done playing games.

He just wants to go home.

Lassiter pushes the door open and Shawn throws up an arm to block his view, panting harshly in anticipation and terror.

He does _not_ want to go through that door.

But he can't help it.

His traitorous feet step forward of their own will, and attempts to turn back or grab something are futile. His fingers slip, his body won't turn, he can't do anything but move forward.

Their voices surround him, whispering, repeating over and over, "Go inside, Shawn. You need to see this. Go inside."

He snags his father's arm and holds tight, daring to look up at his dad's face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I don't want to go inside, Dad," he pleads. "Please don't make me. I don't want to see!"

His father's voice is hard, but not without mercy—or is it pity?—as he says, "You need to, Shawn. You need to see."

"No! No, wait!" He's being pushed now, his feet back under his control, but no match against the tide at his back as he's propelled into the room.

The door is suddenly shut behind him, sturdy and unyielding at his back, though he presses into it anyway.

His eyes are shut, head turned down, gasping for breath as he prays to a God he doesn't know if he believes in to spare him the sight before him.

"Shawn?"

A soft voice and a touch on his arm and his eyes pop open and look up.

"Juliet?"

Sounds are muted here, like he's hearing them underwater.

The tinkle of a music box comes from across the room and a shudder runs over his skin from head to toe as his eyes close again.

"I can't do it, Jules. I'm sorry. I c—" He stops, swallowing and sucking a breath, then letting it out again slowly. "I just can't."

Her fingers slip into his and she squeezes.

When he looks up again she's smiling sadly.

"You have to," she says simply and walks backward, their arms coming up, forming a line—a tow line—between them as she keeps pulling.

He fights it, but she's too strong and all too soon he's pulled away from the door.

"No," he begs, shameless as he pleads for his freedom—his sanity. "Please, Jules. Don't make me—" The fingers of his free hand claw and pry at hers, but they're iron shackles and he can't budge them a fraction of an inch.

"You need to see, Shawn. You need to see." That's all she'll say aloud, though her eyes apologize for every step.

Then they're there, at the bed across the room. The music box sits on the nightstand and plays, a requiem for the owner.

Shawn's eyes are on the ground, but it doesn't matter. There's blood there too.

A puddle of it, a steady drip providing a percussion accompaniment to the music box's melody.

He can't help his actions now. He's lost control again and he can't even speak his denials, his pleas.

All he can do is watch, his gaze following the dripping blood up to the top of the bed, the red garish against the bright pinks and purples. There's a pool there too, feeding the ceaseless fall that sounds like a drum now, or footsteps of some giant stalking steadily toward him. They echo in his ears and he wants to cover them, to block it out, but he can't.

All he can do is look.

Look at the blood. At the stuffed animals, ponies and bears and cats cuddled in a nest around their owner, like pups huddling around their mother, waiting for her to wake up again.

She'll never wake up again. Her sightless eyes tell him that.

So does the gaping hole that used to be her throat.

Now it's just the escape route for her blood, the spring feeding the bloody fall that drips endlessly, accusingly in his ears.

_drip...drip...drip..._

Oh God.

He did this.

He did this to her.

This is all his fault.

If he had—

But he didn't.

He didn't, and now she's dead.

"I'm sorry," he rasps out. His legs go numb and he falls to the floor, landing in the puddle with a sickening splash.

He reaches for her hand on the bed, grasping it and taking it in his own. He can't help but notice how small it is.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. It doesn't matter; she can't hear him.

But he can't stop saying it.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." His head falls forward and he can feel the blood soaking into his jeans, into his sleeves where his arms have fallen into the puddle on the bed.

It mixes with his tears and he chokes on a sob.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorry—"

And then the hand in his convulses, grabbing his wrist in a painful grip and startling him into a gasp as he rears back.

Her eyes aren't sightless or unfocused now, though her throat is still a mess of torn flesh and blood.

She stares at him as he pants for air.

"I'm sorry," he says one last time.

"You should be," she says. "You should be."

And that's when he wakes up.

* * *

Review, plz & thx.


	2. My Body Aches As My Heart Is Breaking

The second and final part. Enjoy. :)

* * *

It takes him a couple of seconds of gasping like a landed fish in his father's boat, one hand on his chest as if to keep his heart from beating its way out, to realize he's awake.

It's dark and his eyes dart around the room, seeking monsters in the shadows, his brain not yet fully aware that this is reality and he's too old to be looking for monsters.

"Shawn?" a sleepy voice asks as one of the shadows rises up next to him.

He makes an undignified squeaking noise and throws himself backward in reflex, tumbling out of the bed in alarm before he can even assess the threat.

The shadow follows and he throws an arm up in defense, face scrunching in terror.

Nothing eats him. The shadow turns on the light on his nightstand and reveals the worried face of his girlfriend.

"Shawn?" she repeats, not as sleepily this time. "Are you okay?"

He blinks furiously in the blinding light until his eyes adjust, embarrassment quickly settling in as he realizes what's going on.

He sighs and wipes a weary hand across his face. "Yeah," he admits quietly. "I'm okay, Jules. Sorry I woke you up."

She doesn't say anything right away, just turns back to her side of the bed and slides her feet to the floor, nestling her cold toes into her furry slippers. Then she's circling the bed and kneeling at his side as he sits up.

"Was it the nightmare again?" she asks, and he can't hear any incrimination, but he flinches anyway.

"I'm fine," he repeats and pushes to his feet, moving to get back into bed. "I'm sorry I woke you."

She stops him with a hand on his shoulder and turns him away from the bed he doesn't really want to get back into just yet. Nightmares waiting for him to fall asleep again aside, his spot is more than a little damp from sweat.

"No," she says and tugs him away from the bed.

He sighs again, but he's too tired to resist and he lets her steer him out of the room.

o.o

She leads him to the kitchen, flipping on a light and guiding him to a chair at the table.

"Sit," she orders and once he obeys she's off, getting out mugs, turning on the coffee pot, retrieving spoons and the bottle of creamer from the fridge.

The only sounds are those of the percolating java and Jules' movements as she gathers everything they'll need.

He's got his head buried in his hands, trying to figure out what to tell her so she won't worry, so she'll go back to bed.

Chief has him under suspension for a week—due to reasons of extreme stress, she said. Shawn's not sure if Karen can do that, but he's too tired to fight her on it—so he doesn't have to be in to work in the morning, but Juliet does.

"Honey, you should go back to sleep," he says as she sits down with the mugs in hand.

"So should you," she says, but it's without any bite.

He accepts the mug with a small smile and wraps his fingers around the warm cup. "Thanks."

He blows on it out of reflex, but secretly he's grateful for the warmth. He's been so cold since—

He shakes his head.

Not going to think about it. That won't help when it's time to go back to bed. He looks at the creamy brown surface of his coffee and mentally notes that neither will caffeine.

Sleep is overrated anyway, he decides and tips a healthy mouthful down his throat. He'd prefer to go back to work than try to sleep again and walk willingly into the path of those nightmares again.

He finally understands why cops hate being put on administrative leave: It's not vacation. It's hell.

"I had been on the force for a month," Juliet says and he looks up in surprise. Her eyes are on her mug, the movement of her spoon as she stirs it around and around. "We were actually there to serve a warrant of arrest for a traffic citation. Guy had missed his court date three times and even though he gave excuses every time, the judge was tired of hearing them. So we were sent to make sure he didn't have other plans."

She lifts the mug and takes a gulp, the mug retreating, but not down to the table. Her eyes are unfocused as she looks at something he can't see and for a moment Shawn sees brown eyes, small and slightly tilted at the ends, over a nose saddled with freckles, sightless and starting to cloud over.

He shudders and looks away and she speaks again, seemingly unaware of his momentary distress.

"Turns out he wasn't just into driving recklessly. He was a dealer and a smuggler and he thought we were coming for his merchandise."

Her eyes close and faint wrinkles of pain appear. "We— We knocked on his door and he opened it and said that he wasn't going to go to prison. And then he raised his gun and blew his head off." She takes another fortifying drink as Shawn's brow furrows faintly in confusion.

He wasn't entirely sure of the point of this story. It wasn't anything like his exper—

Her eyes come up and lock on his and the pain in her eyes hits him like a physical blow.

"I found them in the back room." She swallows and takes one more drink, then continues. "He'd already killed them by the time we got there. I don't— I don't know why he did it. Maybe he didn't want anyone to have what was his. Maybe he was afraid of what the cartel would do to them for his screw up. I don't know. I just know that he killed his wife and four-year-old daughter in cold blood and I didn't stop it."

"Jules—" he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Shawn, if you're about to say it's not my fault then I want you to go to the bathroom and look in the mirror first."

He stops and looks down at his coffee.

Her hand comes to rest on his arm after a moment to regain her composure and she says, "I'm not saying you're wrong. It wasn't my fault. There was nothing I could have done. But I'm not wrong either. It's just as true for me as it is for you."

"But Jules," he says, running a hand through his hair, "this _was_ my fault. You had no idea the guy was bad news, you just thought he was a lousy driver. I _knew_ I was dealing with a murderer and—"

"But nothing. And nothing." She squeezes his arm and he looks at her, hating the way her eyes well up when she meets his gaze.

He feels raw, exposed, naked and on national television even when she looks at him like that.

"Shawn, you're not psychic."

He laughs in somewhat hysterical derision and she shakes his arm and says more insistently, "You're not and that's okay. That's how you get around the not having a badge thing, but you're still a damn good detective. And you did the best you could."

She lets him go as his hands come up to cradle his head again, fingers digging into his hair, separating it into unwashed and slightly greasy clumps. His personal grooming has fallen a bit short this week, but he hasn't really cared.

There are far more important things to worry about than if his hair is perfectly coiffed, though, he admits with a grimace for the feel under his fingers, that maybe _basic_ hygiene could have taken a higher priority.

She gives him some time as she finishes her coffee, then picks up the mugs and takes them to the sink, rinsing them and setting them aside to dry for the morning that is still coming.

Then she returns to his side, resting her chin on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his chest, and kissing his cheek.

"No one expects you to be perfect, Shawn. No one expects any of us to be perfect in this job. All we can do is do our best, and try to remember the victories at least as well as we do the failures."

He snorts and she straightens and digs her fingers into the junctions between neck and shoulders. He's felt the tension there all week and her skilled fingers quickly start to melt it away.

A small pool of guilt wells up at that, but resistance is futile as she increases her efforts in response to his hunching shoulders and eventually he surrenders and lets it ooze out of him with a sigh.

When he's feeling about as sturdy as a tower of jello, she hooks an arm under his and tugs him to his feet. He complies and allows himself to be shuffled and herded down the hall to their bedroom once more.

He hesitates at the sight of the bed, and she lets him pause for only a moment.

"You are _not_ going to go watch TV until you pass out again. Everyone on the force since the beginning of time has tried it and so far no one has successfully made it work."

"Jules—" He's whining and he hates it, but he does _not_ want to go back to bed where he's sure to fall asleep. Even the caffeine he just had won't keep him up against the exhaustion he's been vainly fighting off.

"No. It won't help. It'll only hurt."

He sighs and rubs at the headache threatening behind his eyes.

"Fine," he surrenders. "Whatever."

He climbs into the bed as she circles around to her side and deposits her slippers in their place.

He's curled up on his side, tense again with the looming threat of sleep, and he doesn't see the look on her face, the sympathy and regret that he had to undergo this rite of passage like all of his badge-wearing peers. She shakes her head as she reaches over him to turn out the light.

Then she lays down behind him and curls up, wrapping herself around him, arms around his chest and legs tangled with his.

He stills but doesn't resist her efforts to wiggle into place, then stares into the dark.

He's just hoping that she'll fall asleep before he does so he can sneak out and find a good mindless marathon on a cable channel.

There's got to be at _least_ one playing right now. He just hopes it's not _Facts of Life_ again.

"Mm-mmm," she hums, her nose buried against the nape of his neck. "You're not going anywhere except La-La Land."

He can't help the snort of amusement at her sleepy pronouncement.

"La-La Land?" he repeats in a whisper because speaking aloud feels like too much.

"Yep," she says. "Nightmares aren't allowed there, so that's where you need to go."

He smiles and turns his head into the pillow to keep from laughing louder.

She tightens her grip on him and shifts so her lips are right next to his ear.

"La-La Land is also the place where those perfect sandy beaches exist. The ones with the not-too-cloudy skies and the good waves and the delicious drinks? Where there's never anyone there but the one person you want to be with and you've got a giant blanket and bottomless piña coladas with cherries and pineapple chunks on those little plastic swords stuck in them."

His smile has softened and he wistfully thinks that he'd much prefer to spend his nights there than in that apartment building.

"You know the beaches I'm talking about, Shawn?" she whispers.

"Yeah. I do."

She kisses the back of his neck and snuggles in for the night.

"Last one there has to pay for the drinks," she murmurs and falls into sleep with a sigh.

His smile widens and he carefully turns within her embrace, then secures himself around her, returning the octopus-hug.

"Thanks," he says softly, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

He doesn't know if it will keep the nightmares at bay, but even if he does wake up again, he can think of far worse places to be than in the arms of the woman he loves.

Focusing his waning mental powers on the beach she described, he lets himself follow her into sleep.

* * *

Review, plz&thx.


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